The last time I was in La Paz Mexico was in the early 70's.  I stayed at Los Arcos, the best hotel in town at the time.  It was all white, had a wonderful turquoise swimming pool I laid around in curlers and a blue/green bikini (part of why I am allergic to the sun today), Mexican paver floors, carved wood eyecandy and a wonderful covered portico and, of course, my friend Sully.  Well, I better go back to the beginning.

I was cocktail waitressing and knew Sully had gone to Mexico to  hunt something-or-other with his group of hunting buddies.  He was going to be away a few weeks, nothing unusual.  I was sure to survive.  He was a guys’ guy...always living his life to the fullest, and he taught me well.  

“Hey Sheila....”  the bar owner, Andy, called out to me one not-so-busy Saturday night.  The after dinner crowd was only now beginning to trickle in.  

“Yeah?”  I smiled, because Andy was cool, it must have been important.

“I need to talk to you...in private.”

I pulled myself away from the table of guys I was schmoozing with, tring for a bigger tip and set my tray down on the server section of the bar.  “What’s up?”

“I just got off of the phone with Sully...he broke his leg and ...well, he needs some money...fast.”

“Okay...and ?”  

“He asked me to send you down to Mexico with some.  He’s booked you a flight leaving tomorrow, late morning. Before it leaves you'll have to stop by here and I’ll give you an envelope to take to him.  He’s 400 miles away from the airport now, but he’ll be there in time to meet your plane.”

I could always count on Sully to get me involved in some kind of adventure.  “Okay, I’ll do it.”   I smiled.  I knew come hell, high water or a broken leg, he would meet me at the plane.  He was just that kind of guy.  Reliable in so many ways.

After work I went home, threw what I thought I'd need into my suitcase; a couple of bathing suits, a fancy lace hot pants outfit, a few pairs of shorts and tops, high heels, sandals, makeup and curlers.  I was nothing, if not ready.

The next morning, Andy sent over a cab to pick me up, bring me by the bar to get the envelope and then I was off to the Oakland airport bound for...I didn’t even know, but with my passport in hand I strode with confidence to the counter where I was instructed they would have my ticket waiting.  Thankfully, predictably, they did.  I was going to Mexico!

When the plane landed at the strip they called an airport, I came down the metal stairs, squarely blasted by the heat and looking for my guy; the scrawny, wiry man with the shock of white hair.  I didn’t see him, and my heart sank.  This was a disappointment but I didn’t have even five seconds to dwell on it before, “Pee-Wee!”  I heard his unmistakable voice and turned to see him practically running on crutches, his right leg in a white plaster cast up to his crotch, those crutches moving faster than I thought they should, he was swinging the heavy cast forward and getting a momentum I doubt few could have handled.  He should have been his own cartoon. (He may become one of mine!)

“Well, it's about time you showed up buster!”  I laughed.  He kissed me on the cheek... hardly out of breath.  He was a wonderment of fitness and enthusiasm, no matter what.  

Together we walked to get my bag as he told me of his wild adventure...and I don’t mean about the broken leg. You see the ferry he was going to ride across to the Bah-hah-hah Peninsula to where La Paz is situated happened to have burned up the night before, leaving Sully no alternative but to hire a taxi to drive him the 400 miles, to be in time to meet my plane.  So he did.  He always kept his word.

That night we went to the only nightclub in town.  The goons working the door tried their best not to let me inside with the guys.  I mean it was a nightclub, but in the dusty, stinky parking lot where our taxi driver let us out, I could see nothing but headlights and more drunken men.  I considered whether or not we would be able to get a cab back to our hotel.  I had no knowledge of our location, only that it seemed remote.  After mucho haggling, promises of “dinero”,  finally some wads of Pesos were shoved into big, eager filthy hands. 

They stepped aside.  Immediately I was inside of a large, smoky nightclub, the long tables with benches on either side were brimming with the drunks.  We were escorted to a couple of empty spaces on a bench near the front row and some plain looking girl quickly brought us a couple of Cervezas.  I didn’t even like beer in those days.  It was okay though because soon a bottle of tequila and a bottle of whiskey appeared with a couple of short old-fashion glasses.  A couple of lime wedges and a salt shaker were slammed down in front of us.  Party on down was the message.  

I smoked cigarettes in those days and was looking around for a light when one of the young women rushed in and lit it for me, she flicked me with her Bic.  Wow, such service.  The lights dimmed and the show began.  There were the typical scantily clad girls on the stage, mariachis and a whole lot of whooping and hollering coming from the drunken men of the audience.  The women sang, hoochied and danced to the music as the room of smoke pulsated with the din of hundreds of drunk, horny men....and me.  I was the only woman sitting in the “audience.”  I leaned into Sully and yelled in his ear, “How come I am the only woman?”

He yelled back, “Because it’s a whorehouse.”  Luckily nobody else was, or probably could speak English, besides every person there was probably a minimum of two sips away from being completely shit-faced.  I gulped down a shot of the tequila, chasing it with my second beer.  No wonder all these guys had been drooling.  I was getting loose.

It wasn’t long before that first beer made itself known...again I nudged his side and yelled to him, “Where’s the Ladies Room?”  He looked around, shrugged, let out a whoop-whoop and some waitress came over immediately.  He started speaking in Spanish...”Dondé está báno por mi amiga?”  Like he was fluent or something.

She looked at him, then at me and shook her head side to side.  “No banós por Senorita.  Lo ciento.”  By now I gotta go bad.  I’m shifting weight on the bench.  I stared at him with urgent pleading in my eyes.  Sully quickly handed her another of his wad of pesos...she nodded. 

”Just follow her, she’ll show where her room is and you can use her bathroom for the night.”

It seems no women went to this nightclub, so there I was dressed in this one-piece-beige-lace-hotpants... complete with  a sheer lace overskirt fastened by one button at the waist, rushing by the leering drunks who extended their hands and tongues in unspoken, unwelcome invitations towards my slit skirt until finally she pulled me out of a rickety side door and we ended up in a dusty, dark dirt courtyard with several skinny dogs and the smell of...heck I don‘t know it was. Your guess is as good as mine.

Next thing I knew we were in this tiny, dingy room with a bare red light bulb hanging low over the bed which illuminated a huge Elvis poster now bathed in the red light hung down over the bureau, the bed and a toilet with a bucket and a pull cord for a shower overhead were barely visible.  Eerie, but functional in a primitive sort of way.  She handed me a half a roll of toilet paper and left me there.  Primitive yes, but she made more money that night by letting me use her room as my private Ladies Room than with any tricks she could have turned...plus I smiled each time with genuine gratitude and I got to pee with a red tinged Elvis.  I think he blushed quite a bit in her room. I get to remember it, and treasure this momentous event...funny sometimes what we remember.